wildscape. literary journal

Teaching my child to wash
by Ella B. Winters

In the porcelain ocean, water ripples around 
his round belly, capsizing a rubber duck. 
We squeeze soap on a sponge, and I
show him how to lather up the foam, gently
coat his arms, shoulders, back, let
it creep into every fold. We fan out 
his pink toes like fins and watch 
bubbles web them together. A giggle
bubbles up from his chest. 
Next, slicking his hair with shampoo, 
I show him how to massage his scalp, his
fingers intertwining with mine. 
No one showed me how to do this. No one
made caring for this body a game, 
a pleasure. Still now, I shirk at the feeling
of another's hand in my hair - cut 
my own imperfectly. Shower fast, like it’s 
a secret, a sin. We sculpt
a mohawk like a shark’s dorsal, and he
pretends to prowl through the calm sea.
I pour water over his back-tilted head 
like a baptism, washing off 
the suds. He fidgets, eager to get out 
now, to start on the business 
of readying his small body 
for the next wash. Just a little longer, 
I say, and keep pouring,
until the stream runs clean 
off his hair, off my clammy 
child-heart. 

about the author // Ella B. Winters